I had an anxiety attack, for the first time in a year. My breath was an inflatable taking off overhead, and there I go, bouncing, battling, to recover my breath. How is this conceivable? I live in an excellent, calm home abounding with desert magic totems and tarot pack karma. Linda Hamilton publications in the kitchen. She uses a blade, holds an assault rifle. She plans her assault.
How is this conceivable? I think. I envision a vehement clench hand beating a table. I am happy.
The broiler fellow comes yesterday. Pointing inside the enormous dark he says, I wager you’ve never been more joyful to see a fire. To feel the warmth. This is a half-hour before said assault and my lips and the tips of my fingers start to shiver and numb. I practice my show grin. “The things you underestimate,” I squeak out. I fold my arms over my chest to consistent myself. Forestall the fall. And afterward, he packs his devices, smiles wide and waves, and advances out of the garage. When I hear the swoon thunder of his motor maneuvering not far off, I rest on the floor, tongue an Ativan, and instruct myself to relax.
Possibly it’s the ensemble of all the titanic changes I’ve made in my life at long last figured it out. Perhaps it’s the two calls I’d booked yesterday where nobody appeared or had the tolerability to clarify why they weren’t appearing. Perhaps it’s the nine recommendations I’ve sent which are anticipating reactions.
Perhaps it’s the murmur behind the flap of my ear, talking through the brush that is my hair, Felicia, you should compose a novel rather than another diary. Who needs to find out about your so-pitiful life? Once more? Think about your Bookscan numbers and all I need to do is yell back at the murmur, mother lover, that is all I consider.
I’m acceptable, this I know, however, will I ever be enough? Or it is advisable for me to be content evading the sidelines viewing my companions get their New Yorker profiles and gleaming Times book surveys? Possibly on the off chance that I had persevered through the governmental issues for a brief period longer, organized somewhat harder, hustled… and then I shake my head and understand that my composing would have been hindered in the event that despite everything I ran with a specific cool-kid distributing swarm. I would’ve required a shower rather than a pen and paper.
Possibly the inquiry I should pose to myself is this: Is my work sufficient for me? A few days, a few stories, a few books — yes. Here and there, no.
Or maybe the body desensitized down to nothingness and the hurling and jeans moving like a quick vehicle mirror the vulnerability of all that I’ve requested. Where will I live after this year? Where will I go? Not East, no. Not back to L.A., obviously. Will I experience passionate feelings for? Will he be a self-retained butt face like the rest? Representing my history, likely. I sure expertise to pick them.
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